Idiosyncracies and Experiments
by Forever Unsolved
Summary: Drabbles about life at 221B Baker Street, from John's point of view... non slash! Enjoy! I don't own Sherlock, much to my dismay, although probably to the relief of everyone else...
1. Sodium Pentothal

1. 'If I'm right, John, then the reaction between the sodium pentothal and this chemical we picked up from the crime scene should tell us the poison used by the murderer,' Sherlock mused. I cleared my throat anxiously.

'And if you're wrong?' There was a moment in which Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, tapping his fingers on the tabletop. I waited expectantly.

'It'll either do nothing or explode in rather a large cloud of purple smoke,' he finally replied. Immediately, I headed for the door, grinning as I heard my flatmate's call of, 'Good idea, John; deniability is always useful!'


	2. Definitely Not Tea

2. The kettle was whistling in the kitchen, and, from a distance, 221B Baker Street had an aura of calm about it for once. Sherlock was out, presumably meeting with one of his many shady contacts. We had come to a mutual agreement some time before that it was best that I stay away from known criminals, after Lestrade had rescued me yet again from an almost certain conviction. I returned to the kettle, poured myself a cup of tea, and walked back over to my armchair. Taking a long slow sip I sputtered, almost pouring the contents of the cup out onto the carpet_. It wasn't tea_. Dreading the consequences, I gingerly sniffed the remaining liquid- no, _definitely _not tea. Dialling Sherlock's number, I sat there nervously, waiting for him to pick up, wondering what I had just drunk. Crossing the room once more, I took another look at the tea bag. Oh. Damn. I had steeped a sachet full of Mrs Hudson's potpourri in hot water. Slowly, I hung up the phone.


	3. Bicarbonate of Soda

'John?' Sherlock asked me through the phone, 'While you're out, would you pick up some bicarbonate of soda and a box of candles?' Requests like this generally led to my jumpers being burnt slowly or all of the food in the house being poisoned, so I was, of course, suspicious. ''Why?' I asked Sherlock, set on guard. There was a long, drawn-out pause. 'Experiment,' Sherlock said concisely. Ending the call immediately, I hurried towards the till, anxious to get home and hide any bicarbonate of soda in Sherlock's general vicinity.

Twenty minutes later, I returned home to find Sherlock bending his tall frame over a saucepan- upon closer inspection, I realized that he was completely covered in soot, from head to toe, and, judging by the force of Mrs. Hudson's footsteps, had created some sort of explosion.

'I found some in the pantry. There's no need for you to buy any more,' he said calmly.


	4. Sleeping Patterns

Jolted awake by a loud crashing noise, I sat upright in bed. 'Oh, damn-' I breathed. Turning the safety of my service revolver off, I crept downstairs, dreading the sight of Sherlock's mangled corpse. Closing my eyes and holding my breath, I descended the last few steps to the sitting room. Instead of my flatmate's body lying on the floor in a pool of blood, I saw him standing upright, perfectly well, throwing a large book at the wall. Through clenched teeth, I managed to growl,

'What the _hell_ are you doing, Sherlock?' To this, he replied simply, 'I should think it's quite obvious, John. I am throwing this book at the wall to see what effect it has in the sleeping patterns of our neighbours.'


	5. Both of Us

Sherlock and I arrived at the crime scene to find (unsurprisingly) a corpse, and a swarm of forensics and policemen- among whom were Anderson and Donovan, who I could have sworn were giving each other the odd coy glance. Lestrade walked up to us, saying briskly,

'I called the both of you down here because this isn't just an ordinary body. This,' he gestured to the cadaver on the ground, 'Is one Alexander Jackson, a judge who is quite influential in the area.' He continued for some time, but I stopped listening after a while- because I had just realized that, for the first time, Lestrade had asked for both of us.


	6. Black Coffee

John: we need milk. SH

Get it yourself. JW

It's in the kitchen; you're closer. SH

Only by two feet, you're sitting right next to me! JW

My point still stands. SH

NO. JW

But you're drinking coffee too, and you never have it black! SH

I'll make a sacrifice. JW

Don't tell me you're going to sit there drinking coffee you don't like, just because I asked you to get the milk. Be sensible! SH

No. Get the damned milk yourself. JW

_Ten minutes later_

Skim please. SH


	7. Small Spaces

We were in the lift on the way up to the office of our latest subject, when Sherlock suddenly cried,

'I cannot _wait_ to get this one!' He rubbed his hands together in excitement. We watched the lift numbers flick from three, to four, and to five. The light behind the five turned off, and we both waited expectantly for it o change to six- but with a jolt, the lift shuddered to a halt. Sherlock dropped immediately into a defensive stance- I couldn't help it; I burst out laughing.

'Sherlock, the _lift_ stopped. We're not exactly in any danger. It'll start again on a minute.' He glared at me, and then slowly rose. Tapping out some strange melody on the wall, he watched the numbers intently, as if it would make them begin to move. Eventually, his tapping grew rather frenzied, so I shot a hand out, steadying his. As soon as I had, his other hand tapped it out as well, and I gave up.

'I don't like small spaces.' Sherlock said abruptly. I looked at him, but his expression was stony. I'd carry out my own little interrogation later. For now, I just let him keep playing that invisible tune over and over.

It was two or three minutes before either of us came up with the brilliant solution of simply _calling_ Lestrade. Shouting through the bad connection, we managed to glean that they had almost reached the building, and to hold on. Soon, though, the lift started back up again (we found out later that maintenance hadn't realized our presence and thus turned it off to work on an electrical problem). Sherlock raced up the last flight of concrete steps, taking them two at a time, and almost pushed over Donovan, who was cuffing the suspect.

'What?' Sherlock asked incredulously. 'What the _hell_ are you doing?' Sally looked at him, confused. 'I'm, er, taking him down to the Yard,' she said, then muttered, 'What a psychopath,' while she watched him run down the hall, practically shouting, 'He was _mine_, Lestrade, _mine_!'


	8. Condition Contrary to Fact

Sherlock was sitting in the armchair, reading the paper. He flicked straight to the Violent Crimes section, of course, eyes skimming the page for anything more interesting than the usual. He read far faster than the average person, and it was hardly a minute before he had finished it. There was a moment in which he sat still, mulling things over, and then he stood up sharply, bringing the paper closer to his eyes, reading a single paragraph again and again. I smiled- we'd have a new case, and it would definitely be strange enough to warrant a moment of Sherlock's usually fleeting attention span. Suddenly, he threw the newspaper across the room, narrowly missing the skull- Sherlock's head snapped upwards. His voice was worryingly calm, as he announced,

'It's 'were', not 'was'. This should read, 'The incident would seem ordinary if it 'weren't' for circumstances under which it happened'. Condition contrary to fact.'


	9. Caterwaul

The violin screeched at me- what time was it? Three in the morning? I stalked downstairs, fully ready to shout at Sherlock.

'Right, Sherlock, that bloody violin has got to go. I am sick of getting up in the middle of the night to-' I shut up immediately when I saw Mycroft standing at the door, about to leave, looking back as he watched his brother carefully draw the bow over the strings of his violin. Granted, the noise Sherlock made while doing so was easiest compared to a caterwaul, but something in Mycroft's eyes sent me back upstairs, where I shoved a pillow over my head and tried to get to sleep. The next morning, Sherlock, sitting where his brother had the previous night, said to me,

'He had a new case. Not to mention his usual raid of the flat. He still thinks I have- substances- I don't want him to see. '

'Do you?' I asked him softly. I was answered by a case file flung at me, which appeared to be about a missing government agent. No, Sherlock was definitely clean, except for his nicotine patches and copious amounts of corrosive chemicals- that I hoped, for both of our sakes, he was _not_ planning to ingest any time in the near future.


	10. Tea Kettle

Sherlock was working on a particularly difficult case, involving a fake serial killer and, strangely, an ancient collection of paintings. He sat there in his armchair, wearing more nicotine patches than I cared to consider, hands pressed together under his chin. I don't think he had changed out of that silk dressing gown of his in at least four days.

'John,' he called.

'Sherlock, I'm sitting right here. No need to shout. What is it? A lead?' He shook his head, frustrated.

'No, no, I've run out of tea. Can you make me some?' Sherlock had been drinking tea compulsively during this case- it was a relief that he had quit shouting at the skull, but the constant whistling kettle was getting irritating.

'Sorry, Sherlock, but considering that you've had fourteen cups today, I think you're perfectly capable of making _one_ yourself,' I said. He nodded, slightly morose, then sat up.

_'Yes!_' he shrieked. 'That's _it!_' He sprang up and headed for the door, still wearing the aforementioned dressing gown. 'It was the tea kettle, John, the _tea kettle_! Why was it on when we found the body?' He slipped his shoes on and ran out of the flat still in his dressing gown.

I smiled and made myself a cup of tea.


	11. Rain Check

I had just come in from a _very_ successful day in the clinic, grinning slightly stupidly as I changed for my date with Sarah that night She arrived at half seven, and accepted my offer of a cup of tea. I breathed an involuntary sigh of relief that Sherlock wasn't home to disrupt anything. I opened the fridge to get the milk (I reminded myself that Sarah liked sugar as well), and promptly slammed the door, trying desperately not to scream. Sherlock had done it again. A head sat on the upper shelf, smiling contentedly if slightly disturbingly.

'You all right, John?' Sarah called from the kitchen. I took a deep breath, glared at nothing in particular, and replied,

'Let's have a rain check on that tea, Sarah.'


	12. Designated Driver

'Right turn, Sherlock, _right_ turn,' I said. He nodded, and subsequently swerved dramatically, veered to the right- nearly sending us off the road- all at possibly illegal high speeds. We were tailing a suspect, a small time drug dealer called McCrimmon and I had been stuck in an insufferably small car for at least three hours. It didn't help in the least that Sherlock was a _terrible_ driver, which at least explained why we always took taxis.

'For God's sake, Sherlock, go left! Turn quickly; we'll miss it-' I was cut off when he nearly steered us into a nearby lamppost- I ducked as low as I could until it was clear that we were _not_ about to total Mrs Hudson's old Ford Mondeo.

'It's fine, John. I'm a perfectly capable driver; I have my license- I know what I'm doing.' He peered over the dashboard, keeping our suspect in his sights. I leant down, picked up Sherlock's wallet, removed his driving license (after, of course, having an involuntary laughing fit at his photo), which, I read, had expired eight years beforehand. I looked up just in time to see McCrimmon leave his designated getaway car and walk towards us, hands in the air.

'See,' Sherlock smirked. 'I _am_ a competent driver.'


	13. Worth Twenty

Worth Twenty

We were racing through the streets of London, Sherlock slightly ahead as always. He did make rather a dramatic sight, his long coat billowing out behind him and his crimson scarf standing out amidst the black wool. We rounded a corner- I could just _see_ the look on Lestrade's face when he realised that we'd solved the case- my foot caught on a loose cobblestone and I fell. I grimaced- like an idiot I'd broken the fall with my arm, which sent a sharp twinge of pain shooting through my shoulder. Up ahead, Sherlock skidded to a halt, whirled around and ran back towards me. He crouched down, looked me in the eyes and said earnestly,

'Are you all right?' I nodded, motioned for him to go, but he just shook his head. It was worth the fall- hell, it was worth twenty- to see his usually cold features replaced with genuine worry.


	14. Similarities

Similarities

I sat forwards on the sofa in 221B, and turned up the volume of the TV slightly.

'You'll regret this,' Harry Pearce announced. Spooks was my guilty pleasure- it seemed stupid, it wasn't as if I were ever bored, but I'd watched it for years- ever since it had started; I could remember Harry watching it with me- and didn't plan to stop any time soon. Sherlock threw open the door, calling,

'You in, John?'

'Well, yes, obviously,' I replied, thinking hard- Sherlock kept odd hours, often returned bruised and battered and was often secretive about what he was doing. Not to mention, of course, that his older brother _was_ the British government. I looked from him to the screen, and back again- yes, there were definitely similarities between him and Lucas North.

'So, Sherlock… What have you been doing, then?' He shrugged, and went into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. I vowed to keep a _much_ closer eye on him after that.


	15. Innocuous

Innocuous

I walked into the sitting room of 221B to find Sherlock sitting in his favourite armchair, looking slightly smug and far too innocuous.

'What is it, Sherlock? What've you done now?' He pretended to be affronted, as if I had insulted his very character.

'Nothing, John, why on _earth_ would you think I had _done_ something?' I did a quick sweep of the room- nothing seemed out of the ordinary; there were even fewer disembodied limbs than usual. Something wasn't right. Sure enough, as I entered my room, there was a sharp, acrid smell. I wrinkled my nose, and dared to continue. Lying on the bed were my new headphones- they were expensive, too- chewed into little pieces by _something_, I hated to think what.

'_Sherlock_!'


End file.
